


postgaming

by kosy



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Childhood Friends, Gen, Minific, Prompt Fill, Season/Series 01, Seattle Garages (Blaseball Team), uh oh a genuine emotion! that's not allowed!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/kosy
Summary: “Alright, fine.” He lets out a tortured sigh for her benefit. “IguessI’ll allow you to buy me a hundred dollars’ worth of cocktails.”
Relationships: Jaylen Hotdogfingers & Mike Townsend
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	postgaming

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: _21\. things you said when we were on top of the world._ thanks @cryptidgay for sending this one in, i had a lot of fun with it! i'm not crossposting all my mini prompt fills here, since i've done several and plan to do more and they're all pretty short, but this is one of the better ones imo!
> 
> cw for drinking and some swears, but none of it's serious. hope you guys enjoy!! :)

“Mike!” Jaylen yells, and he turns to see her jogging after him out of the locker room, a huge grin splitting her face. “Dude, where are you going? We’re headed out for drinks!” 

“I’m just not really feeling it tonight, I guess,” he says, offers an apologetic smile. “Think I’m just gonna go back to the apartment and get some sleep for once.” 

“C’mon,” Jaylen complains, stopping in front of him, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “It’ll be fun. Plus you _killed_ it tonight. You were on _fire._ Seriously, anything you want is on me. Even those horrible fuckin’ twenty dollar cocktails you’re obsessed with. It’s—well, I can’t say it’s _worth_ it, no cocktail is worth twenty dollars, I don’t give a shit if there’s _gold flakes_ in it, but with the way you pitched tonight—” 

“I did fine,” he says, allowing himself a half-grin. Puts his hands in his pockets just so they have somewhere to go. “I mean, let’s not be overdramatic. We still barely won. I don’t see why everyone’s so—” 

“You struck out _Jessica Telephone. Twice._ You know how many people can say that?”

He looks down at his cleats. “....Not a lot,” he concedes finally. 

_“Not a lot,”_ Jaylen imitates, pitching her voice way down, then snorts. “Like, I get it, man, you have a whole self-loathing schtick, but—” 

“It’s not a schtick,” he snaps, head jerking back up again to glare at her. “It’s—”

Jaylen waves him off. “Okay, fine, maybe that was a bad way of putting it, but you know what I mean.” 

“You’re doing a really bad job of convincing me to go out to drinks with you guys,” he tells her, and she laughs. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t put you through the experience of going out with the whole team, don’t worry. I’m saying you and me.” _Like how it used to be_ , she doesn’t say. Before their days were eaten up by band practice and blaseball practice and games and gigs and nights out with the team and press tours and mindless interviews with radio announcers who ask all the same questions. Before the most they could manage with each other was a half-asleep conversation over coffee in the mornings and a weary dinner cooked together at midnight before they both collapse into their respective beds to do it all again the next day. 

But Mike hears it anyway, so he nods, lets himself actually smile. 

“Alright, fine.” He lets out a tortured sigh for her benefit. “I _guess_ I’ll allow you to buy me a hundred dollars’ worth of cocktails.” 

“You’re the _worst,”_ she says, delighted, and starts off toward the parking lot, knocking her shoulder into his on the way past. He stumbles even though it was barely a tap, and she laughs, loud in the cramped hallway, and he follows if only so he can punch her in the shoulder. 

Later, she’s half draped across him in a booth of some bar he doesn’t remember the name of, and she’s rambling borderline incoherently about some pretty batter on some other team. Both her movements and her words are sloppy because despite all the bitching she _also_ indulged in the horrible twenty dollar cocktails. She’s kind of a mess, but that’s nothing new. Jaylen’s always a mess; the only question is what flavor. As of right now that flavor is: very drunk. For his part, he’s nowhere near as far gone as she is, but he’s had enough to be feeling blurred but still having fun with it. 

He’s kind of thinking about the music (90s rock playing a little too loud to be comfortable) and kind of thinking about ordering another cocktail (strawberry daiquiri; twenty-eight entire dollars plus tax but Jaylen’s tab can handle it) and kind of thinking about the game he pitched (which, he finally realizes, grinning, was _really_ fuckin’ good) and kind of thinking about his own pretty batter on another team (”pretty” might be too generous as a descriptor, actually). He’s kind of not thinking about anything at all. It’s nice. 

But Jaylen stops talking suddenly, clumsily grabs his face with two warm, sweaty hands. “Mikey,” she slurs, trying valiantly to focus her eyes on him. “Mike Townsend. Michael Robert Townsend. Michael Michael Townsend. Michael James Townsend. Michael _Jaylen_ Townsend. Mike. Mike look at me.” He doesn’t legally have a middle name. This fact has never stopped her. 

“Yeah?” he manages. 

“’M proud of you. And everyone else’s gonna be too. Someday.” She blinks at him, then furrows her brow. “They fuckin’ _better_ be.” 

“You sound like my mom,” he informs her. 

She slaps at his cheek lightly with one hand and says, “Your mom was never this nice.” 

_“Dude,”_ he says. 

“Oh, sorry,” she says, and when he frowns at her, she frowns back. _“Sorry!_ I was tryin’ to be _nice,_ I _swear—”_

“You can’t bring up someone’s mommy issues while trying to be nice. Just, like, as a general rule.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” she says, very seriously. “But I do mean it.” 

“The thing about me having mommy issues?”

“No. Well, okay, yeah, because you do, but mostly the thing about being proud of you.” 

God, his eyes shouldn’t be fucking burning about this. Mike decides to blame the daiquiris. He knows she’s proud of him, he _does._ She’s his best friend and he’s hers and that’s how it’s been for more years than he can count. It’s just—

“You too.” His voice cracks, and she smiles at him anyway. “Thanks, Jay.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! you can catch me on tumblr @fourteenthidol, where more stuff like this is posted, and i'm still open for these if you're interested. def feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you'd like to; it'll make my day! thank you again for reading <3


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